


I Am Because You Are

by r_lee



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-16
Updated: 2010-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-11 21:33:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r_lee/pseuds/r_lee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look at Sam and Kara on New Caprica. Written for the off-season fanfic exchange <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/ineedmyfics">I Need My Fics</a> at LiveJournal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Am Because You Are

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anythingbutblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anythingbutblue/gifts).



> It's strictly my supposition that Sam and Kara moved to New Caprica a month into its establishment. The dates you see here are offset by 4 weeks from the official timeline for that reason. Many thanks to Batya for taking on beta reader duties.
> 
> The title is taken from Sonnet LXIX by Pablo Neruda.

**New Caprica, Week 20**

It might just be true that his favorite thing about waking up in their tent in New Caprica City is his favorite thing about waking up anywhere when they're together. Starbuck's not the kind of girl to lounge around a frak of a lot in the morning. She's got routines. On Galactica it was go for an early run and still beat everyone else to the shower, or get to the toothpaste first, or review some flight data before the day's briefing was even a gleam in the CAG's eye. Here it's get to the supply spot to see if anything's come in, _then_ go for a run, check out the day's weather, stop by the burgeoning Union tent and stir the shit in the pot there a little or, considering this is Kara Thrace they're talking about, a lot. But before any of that happens -- no matter where they are -- he has the pleasure of watching her get dressed.

She always turns her back to him to do it. Even though they've been married a couple months now and have earned the right as newlyweds to be naked more than clothed, loud more than quiet, she still turns her back and that gives him time to both give her a hard time about being such a bitch in the morning and to study those muscles on her back, the way they ripple just so when she puts her arms over her head to pull on her bra, her tanks. With his eyes closed, he can draw a perfect map of every frakking inch of her body and the way it looks by pale morning light. The one thing he never gives her a hard time about is turning for privacy. Kara's the kind of girl who deserves to have what she wants, and she's not perfect -- no one is -- but thank the gods, she's his.

***

 **New Caprica, Week 12**

"Wake up, Sammy. There's somewhere we need to be." It's one of those mornings cold and damp with condensation, the kind that settles heavily on your body and in your lungs. New Caprica's good for that. It's a lousy planet, but it's a nice change from living on a ship. The accommodations suck right now, but their tent is bigger than a rack and if their neighbors don't like it, that's too frakking bad. Some days it's so dank and dreary it's hard to tell morning from night, but he always knows because morning's signified by a marked lack of Kara Thrace in his bed.

Of course, most mornings he doesn't find himself asleep under a frakking table outside in the middle of everything.

"Oh, frak, frak, frak. That was one hell of a party last night." He sits up as cautiously as he can, rubbing his temples, squinting against the daylight. That's right: the groundbreaking ceremony. _Everyone_ was out playing. Dancing. Singing. Smoking. Drinking. Just like the good old days back on Caprica, and on Picon before that.

Kara's got different ideas, though, and while her eyes look almost as bloodshot as his feel, he lets her tug him by the hand until they're both standing.

"Where's the fire, Captain?" The inside of his mouth tastes like yesterday's ambrosia mixed with engine grease; when he runs his hands through his hair he feels grit and dirt. Every ounce of pressure on his skull is one giant hangover demanding to worsen, but Kara looks so happy and determined he's not going to make her wait. He knows better. She's his girl, his lucky lucky girl, and when she's got a grin like _that_ on her face the only thing to do is go along with whatever idea she's stuck on.

They're usually really good ones.

"The fire's by the river today, Sammy." She gives him one of those nodding-this-way glances he knows means she's not going to say anything else right now, and her grip on his hand is tight enough to keep two Vipers hooked together through a wormhole. "Come on."

"Hey, Kara." There's dirt on the thighs of his pants; he brushes it off one-two-three. "Are you—"

"Always such a bitch in the morning? You bet your frakking ass I am. Shut up and come with me."

(Out of all the things he might have thought she was up to that morning, getting married wasn't one of them. But if it wasn't what he wanted, he would have said no.)

***

 **New Caprica, Week 46**

 _Can't believe I married a moron._ He knows she didn't mean it, even if she is kind of a bitch. At least she's _his_ \-- most of the time -- and it's the only reason he lets her lead him away from the pyramid court and back to their tent, the only reason he lets Doc Cottle examine him ("probably pneumonia, but he's young and he's strong. So make him rest. Keep him warm. And with a little luck, he'll make it") and the only reason he lets her tuck him in and rest her hand on his forehead.

"Son of a bitch," she says, and he's not sure if she's just really frakking pissed or actually calling him names or he really _is_ running that high a fever, but the blanket up and over his chest feels good. Kara's the least nurturing and least mothering woman of any woman he's ever known, but that's one of the reasons he loves her. They're _both_ young and strong and they can _both_ take care of themselves, and they love each other but don't have to pander to each others' weaknesses out of some frakking lack of respect or expectation. It's like he told her: he'd rather work the illness out of his system by playing hard instead of by resting. But for now he'll go along with it, even if it's just to put on a show for Doc.

This frakking place. It might be called New Caprica, but it's definitely nothing like the old Caprica. It's been almost a year since the place was settled, ten and a half months since they moved down. A whole year: where are the supplies? Where's the infrastructure? Even in Delphi -- even with the place poisoned by radiation -- they were still able to make do. They had some rations, but they were able to get their hands on what they needed to survive. Here, it's all frakking wild and underdeveloped for how long it's been, and there's not a godsdamned piece of historical precedent for it needing to take so long.

He has to put blame where it belongs, and that's squarely on Gaius Baltar's shoulders. Up in Colonial One, he's sure there's no lack of antibiotics. Or food. Or blankets, or clothing, or assistance. If _he_ was in charge, things would be different. If _he_ was in charge, there would be order instead of chaos. There would be negotiations with every last frakking person on this planet to see that they got what they needed. They wouldn't be living in tents where their neighbors know exactly when they frak and for how long, and all he can say to that is he hopes everyone around them is jealous.

Right. He's supposed to be resting. He's supposed to sleep and stay put and stay warm. It seems like he's just drifted off when he wakes in a sweat feeling like he's been run over by a godsdamned steamroller. Every part of his body aches; he's got the chills; he's drenched. It takes every ounce of his strength to drag himself out of bed to see who's at their figurative door.

"I'm looking for Kara Thrace."

(Oh, _frak._ )

***

 **New Caprica, Week 38**

He doesn't even bother putting his book on FTL technology ("why do you read that crap, Sammy?") away this time when she sneaks in, trying to tiptoe quietly in the dark. Instead, he sets it down, watches her unsteady progress, grits his teeth, and sighs just enough so he can feel it and she can't hear it. When they got married he knew what he was getting himself into: the rumors preceded her, hung around her like a hive of bees that just couldn't be chased away. She wears them like a badge of frakking honor most of the time and there are days he wonders: why the frak did she want to marry him if she was going to do this shit?

"Doesn't it mean anything to you, Kara?" His words cut through the darkness like the blade of a dagger, but the question's valid.

She looks up at him, a deer in the headlights, but the fleeting guilty look's replaced immediately by one of distaste. "I don't want to have this conversation now." Methodically, she begins to undress and he's sure it's not for the first time tonight.

"Yeah? Well, I do." _Now,_ while her back is turned, he closes his book and stands. "Where were you?"

"Out." The stubborn scent of old alcohol wafts over to him; he turns away from the stench. "I was just out."

"Who were you out with?" He wants to know and doesn't want to know. He _needs_ to know and still doesn't want to know but he can't help asking. Kara's his wife. They took vows. They swore a frakking holy sacrament to the gods.

"Trust me, Sammy." She grins heavily out of one side of her mouth, stumbles over to the bed -- their bed -- and pulls up the blankets, kicking them away by her feet. "You don't want to know."

She's probably right. He's not sure if his imagination is capable of being any worse than whatever the reality of the situation might be. He watches her with a pang: he loves her, or at least he used to, but no, he still does. That's the saddest frakking part of the equation: he still loves her as much as ever, and every infidelity real or perceived is a knife to his gut. He loves her, and he can't stand her this way, and they said for better or worse and at least _he_ meant the words.

"Come on, Sammy. Come to bed. I'm tired." Haphazardly, her arm flops down on the empty side of the bed.

"Yeah, right. Give me one good reason why I'd want to get in bed with you right now." He reaches for his jacket and a flashlight: he's not going to stay here with _that._ Bunk over at Jammer's, maybe, or find a nice quiet spot by a stream. He wouldn't frakking _dream_ of disturbing Chief this late. Cally needs all the sleep she can get.

When Kara speaks, she doesn't even bother to sit up but she does wiggle the fingers on her left hand at him pointedly. "Here's a reason. We're married."

"Then start frakking _acting_ like it." Sometimes, she disgusts him.

***

 **New Caprica, Week 2**

Every now and then when he thinks she isn't looking, he'll watch her as she thinks things over. One time she caught him. "Like what you see, Buck?"

"C-Buc. Cute, Kara, cute." Like he'd never heard _that_ one before, but still, it was Starbuck and he laughed along with her.

Today, though, she's probably used to knowing his eyes are on her; she turns back to him with a voracious grin on her face. "Good gods, Sammy. Look."

New people arrive here every day. He was surprised she wanted to move planetside, personally, but there's something to be said for having their own tent and their own chance to start again. Still, his eyebrows rise as she calls out and waves like someone finding a lost family member. "Hey, Chief! Cally! What the frak are you two crazy kids doing down here?"

Chief looks happier than he remembers, and while he didn't spend a whole lot of time on Galactica it was enough. When he got there, Chief had just frakking _attacked_ Cally and left her with a broken jaw and how they got from there to here and married, no less, is a mystery. The world -- any world -- is a tiny microcosm of what exists out there in the universe and back on Caprica he used to marvel at the fact that any two people anywhere could find each other and actually fall in love. The odds are really stacked against people when you realize the enormity of space and time, but what the frak does he know about that scientific shit? He's a pyramid player, an athlete. Before the Cylon invasion, his agent used to set him up with all sorts of people at events (strictly for publicity purposes, he was told). It was good press for him to show up with some supermodel on his arm, talk the talk, walk the walk, smile for the camera, give the interviews, let people feel his arm muscles, strike the odd pose. He hated that part of it because it was so frakking _fake,_ although he hated it with a smile on his face the whole time. Sure, he took some of the models and actresses and TV personalities home for the night. Sure, they'd have fun. But none of it ever lasted: it was too plastic, too contrived.

The barrel roll he felt right in his gut the first time he met Kara was a shock to his system. She wasn't the prettiest or most delicate or most glamorous or best-behaved or least offensive woman he'd ever met by a long shot, but she was definitely the most _interesting._ Besides that, she could play pyramid and not just hold her own against him but beat him fair and square. What do you do with a woman like that? There's only one thing you _can_ do: you claim her. It took a godsdamned war to bring her to his side but if that's what it took, then that was the perfect and only way to meet her. When he looks at her now he can't imagine it happening any other way. When he looks at her now, he smiles from the inside.

That's how Chief's looking at Cally. He nods his professional pyramid-player greeting at the pair of them and when they explain they're just here on shore leave, just checking things out, Chief drops Cally's hand like a kid caught stealing.

And people say dumb jocks don't notice the shit that goes on right in front of their noses. "It's great to see you. What do you say, Kara? Want to show them around the tent? We can have a cup of tea or--" No, it's a special occasion. "Or break out the good stuff. For old time's sake."

"Tea's good," says Cally with a nod just as Chief grins and tells them if it's the _real_ good stuff, he's in.

Starbuck turns, eyebrows raised in that way she has, and laughs. "Some of each. I'll fetch the booze and Sammy can make the tea."

"Don't call me Sammy." Laughing -- that's one of their old standbys -- and grabbing her hand, he pulls her tight and gives her a kiss right in front of the company. Let that be an indication they're not going to stand on ceremony: Chief and Cally can behave however they like and they'll still all be friends. Besides, everyone's seen it all before.

Later that evening, after their guests have gone back to the ship, he runs his fingers down Kara's neck, between the valley at her breasts, stopping at her belly. The neighbors have long since learned not to complain about the sounds emanating from their tent: it's one of those grin-and-bear-it situations they all know only too well. A bead of sweat follows his finger; she pillows her head with her hand and grins up at him.

"If that's how things are going to be after _every_ guest's visit, I want more." The way she runs her tongue over her teeth is proof enough of her satisfaction; he could kiss that fantastic malleable mouth of hers until there's nothing left. One of these days, he just might.

"I didn't know seeing Chief and Cally was going to be such a turn-on for you." His hand, not content to stop its exploration just because the larger moment's over, works its way back up to cup one of her breasts. When he dips down to taste her and feels her strong fingers nestling in his hair, he can't help but smile against the salt of her skin.

"Just good to know people are still having fun." The small of her back arches and she wriggles up toward him, almost but not quite involuntarily, and her own hand takes a turn running down _his_ spine. "Frak. I could go again right now."

"You could, huh?" The words, spoken against the softest and smoothest part of her, serve as a promise to take on that challenge. "What are the neighbors going to say about that?"

"Shut up." It's an answer and a demand, both; she rolls him over and claims her position above his hips. "Watch this, Sammy. I'm going to make it happen again for both of us."

He has no doubt she will. If she lacks anything, it's sure as frak not stamina. Lucky thing he's an athlete and knows how to keep up.

***

 **New Caprica, Week 63 (3 months after Kara's disappearance)**

"Any sign of Kara?"

Everyone's sick as frak of hearing the question but he refuses to give up hope. She's his wife, his girl, his lucky charm, his shining star, his angel, his love, his everything. Let the rest of them tell him he's nothing but a starry-eyed romantic for believing it, but he knows deep down in his heart she's still alive.

If she wasn't, he'd sense it.

She's here _somewhere,_ godsdamnit, and he's going to find her if it frakking kills him. They don't build what they've built and have what they've had only to let some toaster take it away.

"Any sign of Kara?"

If only he hadn't been sick that day, he would have been with her. If only there had been antibiotics. It would be so frakking easy to blame her disappearance and everything else on Lee Adama, but he's never taken the easy way out of anything. It's his own godsdamned fault he wasn't with his wife the day she never came home. He would have protected her. He would have kicked Cylon ass for her. He would have _died_ for her.

He'll still protect her. He'll still kick Cylon ass for her.

He'll still die for her.

"Any sign of Kara?"

The answer is always the same. "Sorry, Sam."

Sorry his _ass._ He'll _never_ frakking give up on Kara Thrace.

Never.

***

 **New Caprica, Week 9**

"Right here. It's far enough away from everybody else and it's got a great view of the mountains and stars." He walks the perimeter of what could some day be their home, marking the corners with rocks for now. "What do you think?"

The girl he just can't get enough of bites her lower lip in that way she has when she's being thoughtful. The moonlight spills over her, lighting up her features: the glimmer in her eyes, the tilt of her nose, and she's beautiful. She's beautiful and sexy and confident, and she nods decisively.

"I like it." She gestures down at the imaginary house they have yet to build with supplies that don't exist unless they go right out and claim or chop or manufacture them. With her index finger, she taps the crease above her upper lip twice, three times, four, then lets out a regulation Starbuck laugh and reaches for his hand. "This can be the kitchen. It'll be a frak of a lot nicer than the one in my _last_ shitty apartment. And over here, we can get a table and sit around and eat with a view of that mountain."

They've had a little to drink tonight and they're both kind of buzzed, but her enthusiasm is contagious. Like his imagination is good enough to see it perfectly now before it's built, he nods. "Yeah, that's just what I was thinking." There's a smile blossoming on his face too, and he can't think of a single frakking reason to try to keep that hidden. "And over here, this can be our bedroom."

She tugs him by both hands into their not-yet-bedroom, stands on the tips of her toes, and kisses him. For good measure, it seems, she does it again, coming to rest against his shoulder with a satisfied smirk on her face. "Someone has to christen the bedroom. Might as well be us. Right, Sammy?" Kara giggles, hiccups, puts her fingertips to her mouth, and kisses him again. She's right: their imaginary bedroom in their imaginary house on this almost-imaginary planet needs christening.

There's no time like the present, and besides, they'll never have this moment again. He picks her up in his arms, swings her in the night air until she laughs out loud. Why live half-assed when you can go full throttle?


End file.
